From Best Friend To Fiancé (Savannah and Roman) novel Chapter 492

492

“Actions,” he replied, turning away, “always have consequences.”

He began to walk toward the door, conversation concluded on his terms. It had always been that way. He ended things. He decided

when words stopped mattering.

Come see me when you’re ready to be civil,” he added without looking back. “I’m glad you’re awake.”

“No, you’re not.” My voice cut through the room. “You’d rather I stayed in a coma forever.”

He stopped. Still facing away. “And what would that solve?” he asked mildly. “Enlighten me.”

My throat tightened with something that was not fear. “How do women die in this house,” I said, “with their babies?”

That did it.

He did not respond. He did not turn. He simply resumed walking and exited the room until the door closed behind him with quiet finality.

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For a moment, nothing existed except the roaring in my ears. Then I

moved.

I followed him behind, rage surging faster than thought. Every step

pulled at my wounds, but pain barely registered. All I saw was his

back retreating. All I wanted was to stop him. To force an answer out

of him. To break something that had never been broken.

I just had this much fury that I needed to let out somehow. Anyhow.

“I’m still talking to you,” I called, voice rough with rage.

My father kept walking calmly.

A hand caught my arm. “Roman. Stop.” Savannah. Her grip wasn’t strong. It didn’t even need to be. The contact alone slowed me.

I turned, anger still burning hot. “What?!”

She flinched. The sound of her breath catching snapped something inside me. Guilt flooded in where rage had been.

I closed my eyes briefly, forcing air into my lungs. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “My love… I’m sorry.”

She nodded, but the tension didn’t leave her shoulders. “Don’t go

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after him,” she whispered. “Please.”

Her eyes dropped briefly to my chest

–

fabric. To the reality I wanted to ignore.

to the bandages beneath the

“Think about us. The baby.” The words hit differently.

I frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s too early,” she said carefully, walking backwards into the room and I followed. “You just woke up. You’re still healing. You’re not

ready to fight him.”

“I am ready,” I insisted. The certainty felt necessary, even if it wasn’t

entirely true.

She looked like she wanted to argue. Something trembled in her expression–fear, frustration, maybe both. But she swallowed it.

“Okay,” she said softly. “I agree. You’re strong enough.”

The concession didn’t feel like victory.

“But not today,” she added. “Not like this.” Her voice was gentler now, but firmer. “Tomorrow,” she continued. “Meet him properly. On your terms. In his office. Alone, like he wants. I don’t want to be there.”

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Her fingers firmly wrapped around my arm.

“But right now… let me help you. Let me help you shower so you

don’t wet your bandages. Let me help you eat.”

“I can feed myself,” I muttered. “I’m not helpless.”

“I know,” she said immediately. “I never said you were.” There was no accusation in her tone. Only patience. Only concern. “I’m only offering,” she finished. “That’s all.”

The anger inside me had nowhere to go. It circled, restless, searching for release. Violence would have been easier. Clearer. Simpler.

But she stood there, asking for something small. And I found myself

unable to refuse her.

I exhaled slowly. “Fine, baby.” I said at last.

Relief softened her expression, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

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